Rhiannon

by Roberta Gellis

  When Simon had no answer to his call, fear for Rhiannon gripped him again. It did not seem possible to him that, bound as she must be, Rhiannon could have gone farther than his voice would carry. A hundred deaths, each more horrible than the last, flashed through his mind. Without another look in Madog’s direction, he set off to follow Rhiannon’s trail. However, he was hardly out of sight of the fallen tree when he saw her lying on the ground.

  “Rhiannon!” he cried. “Beloved!”

  So close as he was, his voice was too loud to be mixed into a dream. Rhiannon’s eyes opened. “Simon,” she breathed, “oh, Simon! How did you find me?”

  He did not bother to answer that, turning his attention first to cutting the thongs that bound her hands and feet, then to taking her in his arms and holding her so tight that she gasped in pain. Indeed, although her arms were too numb to move, Rhiannon pressed herself as tight as she could into his broad chest. After a little while, however, she lifted her head and smiled. Simon was shaking. Apparently he had been more frightened than she.

  “Simon, I am all right,” she assured him. “I was not much hurt, except for a few bruises from falling. But how did you find me?”

  He began to tell her how Math had wakened him and he had grown uneasy, thinking she was away too long.

  “You were right. Mallt asked me to take her into the forest to gather herbs. I should have been back soon after sunrise.” Her eyes flashed. “Wait until I get back to Aber. I will teach that Mallt to connive with ransom-seeking abductors. I—”

  “She is dead,” Simon said, “and Madog…oh, good God, I forgot the man completely.”

  He got to his feet, lifting Rhiannon in his arms as he rose, but when he got back to the fallen tree, Madog was nowhere to be seen. On the way he had told Rhiannon briefly what had happened.

  “But why?” she asked as he set her down. “It is quite mad. Surely he did not think he could force me to marry him—”

  “He did not want marriage,” Simon said, examining the ground near where Madog had been lying. “He believed you had cursed him. He was the one who made Ymlladd uneasy when we were at the cove yesterday.”

  “Oh, dear Lord,” Rhiannon sighed, “it is all my fault! How sorry I am, and how useless it is to be sorry. Mallt also thought I was a witch because of my stupid habit of talking to Math. She heard some silly words I said in jest… And now she is dead, poor foolish woman.”

  “And just as well, too,” Simon retorted in a hard voice. “You are a fool if you waste any grief over her. She knew what Madog intended, and if she really thought you a witch, it was her right to accuse you—”

  “Do not be silly, Simon,” Rhiannon said softly and sadly. “How could a nobody like Mallt find the courage to accuse Prince Llewelyn’s daughter of being a witch? It cannot be unknown that the same kind of rumors were afoot about my mother—and Llewelyn lay with her notwithstanding. I am a favorite, too…”

  “Mallt was a mean, vicious bitch, and the world is none the worse for her loss,” Simon said comfortingly, but his voice was absent. He had found Madog’s trail.

  The question occupying his mind while he comforted Rhiannon was whether it was worth pursuing Madog. Simon was not sure he could catch up to him if he carried Rhiannon, and he would not consider leaving her alone even for a minute, much less for the time it would take to pursue Madog and drag him back. Nor could Rhiannon come with him under her own power. He knew that feeling was returning to her hands and feet because he had noticed she was moving her arms and legs uneasily as she sought to relieve the pain of the blood returning. Still, it would be some time before she could walk.

  Rhiannon realized what must be going through Simon’s mind. “Go after him,” she urged, “not for me, but because a man who would murder his own partner in crime is an evil thing. Poor Mallt. I am not afraid to stay here. Leave me your knife. I will soon be able to use it.”

  “Oh, no! You will not go out from under my eye until I have you back safe under your father’s.”

  “You will not tell him! No, Simon! No!”

  Simon swung her up into his arms. “What do you mean ‘no’? Do you think I intend to allow Madog to get away with trying to leave you alone to die of suffocation or starvation, not to mention his outright murder of Mallt? Even if I were so soft-headed as to agree to that, how do you suggest I explain your condition? If you think I can smuggle you into Aber without anyone seeing you, you are mad.”

  Rhiannon thought that over and sighed. “Could you not?” she begged. “I do not mean not to tell my father about Madog. He must know that Mallt was killed. But…”

  “Rhiannon, do not be an idiot,” Simon said. “What do you want me to do, stuff you under my tunic and say I am a pregnant woman?”

  She laughed at that, but persisted. “I will soon be able to walk. All you have to do is go back and report Mallt’s murder. Just do not mention me at all. I can say I had a fall.”

  “Of course,” he replied sardonically, “and in the ravine—or whatever you fell into—the roots of the trees tangled themselves around your wrists and ankles. Rhiannon, you will bear the marks of that binding for a week or more. You may be able to hide the bruises from Prince Llewelyn himself, but one of the women will see. It will come to his ears—everything does. Can you imagine how angry—and hurt—he will be?” Simon paused and then said, “Do not be so selfish, Rhiannon. You may be indifferent to the danger to you, but Llewelyn and I are not.”

  “Selfish!” Rhiannon exclaimed. “Man! How dare you! So that you may be easy in your mind, you will bind me faster than Madog did. You would chain me hand and foot and mind to a bower. But when the trumpets blow for war, you will run to them. What woman dares to say, ‘There is danger; do not go to it’? ‘Duty,’ you will answer, but—”

  “It is not true,” Simon interrupted.

  “What? That you run to war as to a festal merrymaking?”

  “That I wish to chain you,” Simon rejoined hotly, setting Rhiannon down on a convenient rock so he could look at her while they argued. “I do not go to war alone against all my enemies. That is all I ask of you.”

  Rhiannon looked so stricken at these words that Simon paused.

  “Have I so many enemies?” she asked softly. “I have never intended harm to any man or woman.”

  “Perhaps enemies is the wrong word,” Simon allowed, and he could not help smiling as he added, “especially among the men. But—”

  “You need not fear that I will be taken by surprise again,” Rhiannon said with a touch of bitterness. “I will not easily forget this, and I will be on my guard.”

  That was true. The frown of worry on Simon’s face disappeared. He knew Rhiannon’s woodcraft to be the equal of any Welsh huntsman’s, which was to say a miracle of perceptiveness. There was always the danger of an arrow shot from concealment, but a whole army surrounding her could not really protect her from that kind of attack. Then his eyes narrowed.

  “If you desire, I will say nothing to Prince Llewelyn,” he agreed, “but neither will I lie to my overlord. If he questions me, I will tell him you bade me not to answer. Will this content you? However, I will not leave you alone. If you wish to walk into Aber on your own feet, I will wait with you until you are able. Of course, that means that Madog will most likely escape. He need only find a woodsman’s hut and say he was set upon by outlaws.”

  Rhiannon could see the wicked gleam between Simon’s narrowed lids. Her own eyes glittered with rage for a moment, and then she burst out laughing. “Devil! Clever devil! You know I could not lie to my father any more than you could. And he will ask. You are quite right. Someone will tell him I am all bruised.” She flexed her fingers weakly and set a foot to the ground, but the ankle turned and she winced with pain. “Very well,” she said, “I am ready to be carried home, but—but do we have to tell Llewelyn about the idea that I am a witch?”

  “No,” Simon replied instantly, all concern for “lying” to his overlord passing from his mind.

>   In Wales such a reputation might not be too dangerous. Wise women versed in herb lore and the old religion were usually respected and allowed to live in peace, although it was clear from what had happened that some danger was involved. However, if an aroma of witchcraft tainted Rhiannon, it would be worse for her in England, where the old faith was equated with Devil worship. That would mean that Simon might not be able to bring her to Roselynde. Even without any accusations, Rhiannon was so strange in her ways that she was looked at askance. To raise the subject of witchery, even to deny it, would be a mistake.

  “What will you say?” Rhiannon asked.

  “The truth—that I never asked Madog why he had attacked you. That I assumed he wished to force marriage on you, and I was too busy finding out what he had done with you—and to you—to worry about why he had done it.”

  “But he told you unasked…”

  Rhiannon fell silent and shrugged. She had no right to complain about Simon’s duplicity in clinging to the literal truth. She intended to use the same device herself to avoid the subject of whether or not she was a witch. Nonetheless, Simon’s rapid perception of how the truth could be used as a direct lie distressed her. How many times had he done it already? How often would she herself be a victim of that kind of “truth-telling” if she weakened and linked her life to his?

  When Simon had found her, if he had asked her to marry him, Rhiannon would have agreed, so overwhelming was her joy and relief. It was not only important that he had found her but that he was so aware of her that her absence had made him uneasy enough to seek her. Now she was armored again. She did not blame Simon or dislike or despise what he was going to do. In fact, she admired the quick intelligence, the flexibility, and the adroitness that permitted him to find such an escape from the problem. Unfortunately, she also feared those aspects of his personality.

  Her resolution came just in time to save her from a new assault. As he came forward to lift her again, Simon said, “I can see no reason to start a stupid rumor about yon which, the more it is denied, the more those who wish to believe will believe it. Prince Llewelyn will take no chances that another man will conceive the notion of abducting you and forcing you into marriage. Like it or not, Rhiannon, you will have to be accompanied when you run loose in the woods. Of course,” he added after a thoughtful hesitation, his eyes gleaming with mischief, “you could agree to marry me. It would not be worthwhile seizing you after that because your father would not yield the promised dower to any other man.”

  Although what he said was true and Rhiannon knew he would gladly accept her agreement, his expression did not seem serious. Nor was there the slightest implication that Simon felt she should accept him out of gratitude because he had saved her life. He was only teasing her to sweeten the bitterness he knew she must feel, for he was aware how precious her freedom was to her.

  “I think it would do less permanent damage if I simply went home,” Rhiannon replied, placing her arms around Simon’s neck and resting her head on his shoulder as he carried her. “I will be safe enough there. There is no reason for me to stay here any longer. I have found the answer to the question I brought with me.”

  “What was that?” he asked, sounding surprised.

  “I told you the first night, and you did not like my answer. Put that question aside, and I will give you an answer you will like. Now I desire only you, Simon—but not for marriage. If I cannot have you without that bond, there is nothing to hold me here. I will go back to Angharad’s Hall where, if any do think of me as a witch, they do not hate me for it. And no man aspires to marry me. They know there that the women of Angharad’s line do not marry.”

  Simon’s step hesitated. “Rhiannon,” he said uncertainly, “is that why you will not have me as a husband? Is it the tradition of your people? Something could be worked out—”

  Rhiannon wondered whether she should allow him to believe that, but it was not true. Some of the things Kicva had said implied that she expected her daughter to marry in the usual way. At last she did not answer him directly and only said, “Please, Simon, can you not accept me as I am? It is not owing to any fault in you that I refuse. I must be free. I cannot be bound to any man.”

  “I can leave you free, Rhiannon,” he said slowly. “Indeed, I know no way to hold you against your will, nor would I wish to do so. But I do not understand what you mean by not being bound to any man.”

  “You understand it well enough. Until you decided for some reason known only to yourself and God that you had fixed upon me for a wife, you desired many women but never wished to be bound to any one. So why—”

  “Men are different,” Simon interrupted sharply.

  “Perhaps,” Rhiannon agreed. “I have discovered I desire only you—but that is now, this day, this week, perhaps this year, or even for ten years. Simon, I wish you would listen to reason. I cannot give you more than I have. I offer my body and my friendship. Will you not take them?”

  There was a long silence while Simon strode steadily back along the trail. His arms were growing weary. Slender as she was, Rhiannon was hard-muscled, and her wiry strength weighed more than another maiden’s soft plumpness. After a time he had to stop to rest, and he put her down on a fallen log. He still had not answered her question when he sat down beside her and took her hand.

  “I cannot take just your body and your friendship,” he said. “God knows, you burn in me like a branding iron, so hot is my desire, but that is not all. I need more than your body to slake my heat.”

  “Let it be, then,” Rhiannon urged hastily. She could neither hurt Simon nor expose herself to the disaster that would overtake her if she permitted herself to love him. “I will go home tomorrow if I can, or the next day at the latest. You know where to find me if you should change your mind.”

  Simon hated the thought of her going, but it would not have mattered if she remained. When he finally carried her through the gate of Aber, he was greeted with cries of relief—but not for Rhiannon’s sake. No one had missed her at all, however, a message had come for Simon from Richard Marshal and Simon could not be found. Since age had not dulled Prince Llewelyn’s perceptions, he was not unaware of the envy Simon had aroused because of Rhiannon’s favor. Llewelyn had said nothing, convinced that Simon was also aware and could take care of himself. However, the news that Simon had left Aber alone, unarmed, and clearly for some urgent purpose—the guard had seen him running like a wild thing toward the forest—worried the prince.

  After Llewelyn found out what had happened in the forest, he sent a party to retrieve Mallt’s body and messengers flying in every direction to order the apprehension of Madog ap Sior. Beyond that, Llewelyn could do little and did not allow himself to waste time and energy on the subject. He greeted with relief the news that Rhiannon intended to go home to her mother. She would be unhappy if it was necessary to keep a watch on her. Now that Llewelyn expected to send out raiding parties any day, he did not want his young men distracted by the possibility of a rich dower and a beautiful wife, particularly when it was clear to him that Simon would have her eventually.

  Truly, Llewelyn was far more interested in what was in Richard’s letter than in his daughter’s future. He kissed her absently and waved her away into the care of one of the healing women, his eyes fixed on Simon, who was reading the letter at his insistence. Having perused it, Simon simply handed it over.

  “It is mostly for you, my lord,” he said. “Richard sent it in my name so that you would not be compromised if you did not wish to be connected with his doings.”

  Llewelyn’s lips twitched. “I see that your delicacy is less than Pembroke’s.”

  Simon grinned at him. “Much less.” Then he shrugged. “My lord, if Henry wishes to believe you guilty, he will find fault no matter how careful you are. I am your vassal, and you have a perfect right to receive me, no matter who are my friends. However, Henry might well claim that you have offended him by giving me countenance. You also have a right to see a letter you
r vassal receives from a man who might be your enemy.”

  “But if I am to believe you, other men’s rights have short shrift at King Henry’s hands.” Llewelyn nodded. “Then I need not worry. If my rights are respected, I am doing no wrong. Otherwise, I might as well be hanged for a sheep as for a lamb.”

  Llewelyn turned his eyes to the letter he held, and the smile fixed on his face for a moment. Then his expression eased. “How sure would Pembroke be of this information?” he asked Simon. “Can I trust in it?”

  Simon shook his head. “You see what he says. It comes from those who ‘wish him well’ in Henry’s own camp. I think they are to be believed. There are few except the foreign mercenaries who favor this attempt to crush Richard. He has friends, I am sure, who would be glad to warn him of a move by the king to entrap him. However, the Bishop of Winchester is a most subtle man. He knows all this as well as you and I. It is possible that he would send out false information in this guise—only I cannot see how it would benefit him.”

  “In that he may hope my eyes will be fixed so firmly in the south that I will not notice Henry’s army slipping through the passes northward,” Llewelyn pointed out.

  Simon looked startled and then laughed. “They would not be such fools, not after you stopped Henry dead and starving only two years ago.”

  “Men sometimes do not wish to remember events just as they were, and Henry is notoriously given to blaming others for failure, rather than looking at facts clearly. I have heard he says it was de Burgh’s fault, not Welsh skill, that turned back the army.”

  “That is true,” Simon agreed, “but the king’s spite is very strong and he is bitterly angry with Richard—Pembroke, I mean.” A shadow passed over Simon’s face. “I cannot seem to become accustomed to the fact that my own Earl of Pembroke, Lord William, is dead and his brother is now earl. Yet Richard is a fine man.”

  “One’s heart clings to the most familiar. You will grow into acceptance,” Llewelyn comforted, but he was obviously thinking of something else. After a short silence he brought his eyes into sharp focus on Simon again. “You had better go to him as soon as may be. Do not take too many men, only as many as might be reasonable when traveling across country in which a war is brewing.”